


Shoots and Ladders

by MoyaKite



Series: Factionless AU [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 13:57:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3449666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MoyaKite/pseuds/MoyaKite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whirl becomes a mafia heavy rather than a cop. And then he meets Rung.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Can't Hit A Guy With Glasses

**Author's Note:**

> This work is cobbled together from a series of requests over on my Tumblr. (I'm moyaofthemist over there.) They were technically supposed to be ~3 sentences long each, but they ended up...not being that short. Upon request, I'm posting them to AO3.

Whirl had gone to the psychiatrist’s office for his usual ‘insurance’ shakedown. Lotsa breakable stuff, shame I’m so clumsy with these claws and gun-tits, the whole shebang. He’d done it a hundred thousand times—he learned the spiel from the fraggers who’d wiped out his own business. It was familiar.

And  _now_  he found himself perched on the ridiculously comfortable chair in the little guy’s office, very very carefully helping to glue together a model ship. A model ship! He could’ve crushed it in one claw.

But—but Rung looked at those ships the way _he_  had looked at his watches. And it’d been _vorns_  since he got to use his hands—claws—to make something rather than wreck it. He hadn’t thought he still  _could_  build things. Definitely nobody had ever reacted to him saying, “Yeah, nice ships you got there; it’d be a shame if I broke one—” by replying, “Oh, I’m actually working on another one right now. Would you like to see?”

And how the frag was he supposed to answer that? Mechs knew what to expect when an empurata came to town complimenting their scrap. But Rung had missed the warning and just—just rolled with it. Started talking all cute and excitedly about these silly ships. And he just—he couldn’t be the heavy crashing in to wreck all that.

"I’m in so much scrap when I get back," Whirl muttered. "You know that?"

"Then don’t," Rung said. "I could use an assistant."

Like it was that easy leaving the mob. …Pit, maybe it could be. Whirl was the best heavy they had. Even if they tried to make an example of him, well, what’s the worst they could do? He’d already lost his hands and head. He was good enough in a fight that he’d take down at least five mechs if they tried to offline him. 

Frag, why not.

"Gonna need a place to crash," he said. He lived in a mobster-owned apartment, and he’d be scrap if he tried to keep recharging there. 

"There’s an apartment upstairs," Rung said, carefully affixing some mounted artillery to the model ship. It looked pretty cool. "I’m small enough to take the couch, so you’d be welcome to the berth."

Whirl shook his helm, even though his claws remained steady. “You’re courting disaster, Doc. I don’t keep well.”

"Oh, I wouldn’t dream of  _keeping_  you,” Rung said, and something about his tone—or maybe the mischief in his smile—nearly kicked on Whirl’s cooling fans. “But you’d be welcome to stay.”

Looking at that smile, Whirl wondered just what he’d gotten himself into.


	2. Snuffles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung snuffles in his sleep.

Rung snuffled when he recharged. Not loud enough that it would bother an ordinary mech, mind you, but Whirl had gotten used to listening for anything and everything that might go bump in the night. So he lay awake on the berth, looking up at the ceiling.

It’d take less than a klik to go over and snuff Rung’s spark in his sleep. Pit, he didn’t even have to get up—the snuffling was enough of a target that he could reach out and shoot him in the dark. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d offlined a sleeping mech.

Didn’t Rung  _know_  that? How was he recharging soundly enough to make  _fragging adorable_ snuffling noises when he  _literally_ had a murderer in the room?

He had the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab the mech and—and—he didn’t know what was supposed to happen after that. His gut said _throttle him_  but the idea of shaking that little nerd like some baby organic’s ragdoll made his processor lock up. What  _else_  did you do after grabbing a mech?

"Scrap," he muttered aloud. "I want to hug him."

When was the last time he’d had any sort of physical contact with another mech that didn’t involve punching? Or eviscerating?

"Hey, Doc," Whirl called. The little psychiatrist snorted awake, his optics flickering on as he turned to face Whirl.

"Yes?" Rung asked. "Is everything all right?"

"The berth’s big enough for two," Whirl said, then cringed at the way that sounded. "I’m not—I don’t mean—frag, forget it."

Rung cycled his optics once, then stretched and got to his pedes. “Are you having difficulty recharging?”

"Only because you snore so fragging much," Whirl shot back—embarrassment warred with excitement in his spark as Rung actually came to sit on the berth. "I don’t think the couch is good for a little guy like you."

"My apologies." He settled a delicate hand on Whirl’s claw. "I’m not sure what you had in mind, but I’m afraid that I’m too tired to do more than recharge tonight regardless."

"I’m just doing this because I need some recharge and you’re really noisy." Whirl huffed in a show of annoyance that would cleverly disguise the fact that his cooling fans were trying to kick on at the very suggestion. "I’m gonna kick you any time you get noisy enough to wake me up, okay?"

"Mmm." Rung’s optics flickered as he sagged sideways. "I suppose that’s fair."

"Right off the bed," Whirl said, going stiff as Rung’s helm came to rest against his arm, just below the rotor blades. "You got that?"

"Mmhmm." Rung’s optics shut off. When Whirl scooted back to give him room to get on the berth, Rung followed the warmth, curling up beneath Whirl’s chest.

At least, Whirl assumed he was going for the warmth. Little bots got cold fast, right? And Rung’s alt-mode was…really bizarre, so he didn’t even have an automotive engine to keep him warm. “What’d you do before I got here?” Whirl muttered, gently tucking his arm around Rung. “Freeze yourself into stasis every night? Sheesh.”

Rung didn’t so much as stir—in fact, the snuffling started again as his frame relaxed into recharge.

"I don’t think blanket’s in my job description, y’know."

Whirl offlined his optic and settled back against the berth. This time, the snuffling was almost—comforting. Tucking his knees up beneath Rung to surround him on all sides—so he wouldn’t freeze to death in the night, obviously—the sound gently lulled him to sleep.


	3. Presents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I know you basically just moved in," Whirl said, "but the only thing you’ve got in here is your ships. So I did you a favor and got something to make the place way cooler.

"I know you basically just moved in," Whirl said, "but the only thing you’ve got in here is your ships. So I did you a favor and got something to make the place way cooler." With a flourish, he gestured at an enormous box over where the berth should have been. It was easily twice the size of the recharge slab it had replaced—Rung coouldn’t deny a twinge of unease as he surveyed it. "C’mon, open it!"

Rung went over to the gift with furrowed optic ridges, Whirl hot on his heels. “Where did you get the credits for a gift? I haven’t paid you yet.” 

"I made bank when I was in the mafia, Doc." He waved a dismissive claw. "Not like I need to buy new guns now. Might as well blow my money on something else."

_Or somebody else, as the case may be,_  Rung thought to himself, examining the package. It was almost as large as he was tall. “I actually got you a gift, as well. Would you like to open them at the same time?”

Whirl stilled. “You got me something?”

The little note of disbelieving awe in his voice made Rung’s spark pinch. “It’s much smaller than your gift,” he said, pulling the little box out of subspace and holding it out to Whirl. “I hope you like it, though.”

Whirl took the box from Rung’s outstretched hand with more care and gentleness than Rung had ever seen. “You got this for me?” He turned the box over in his claws, his field held close to his frame. “Like, especially for me?”

Rung nodded, settling in to open the big package. The wrapping proved less stubborn than he’d feared—in a few moments, he’d pulled the packaging away to reveal—“A model ship?”

"It’s a berth, you goof," Whirl said. "It’s shaped like that ship you like. The first Arc." His yellow optic fastened onto Rung’s face. "It’s big enough for the both of us, and it’s way cooler  _and_  comfier than that boring recharge slab you have right now.”

Rung rested a servo against the soft padding on the new berth—he’d never owned anything so comfortable and soft. It’d always been too great a luxury. “I’m afraid my present can’t possibly compare to this.” His voice came out quieter and more awed than he’d meant. 

"Speaking of that, Doc?" Rung’s helm snapped up at the nervousness in Whirl’s voice. The little box was carefully pinched between Whirl’s claws. "I—I don’t wanna break it."

"Do you want me to open it for you?" Rung asked, carefully taking the box back. When Whirl nodded, he smiled and unwrapped it. "All right. Just a moment. Have a seat on the berth."

They settled in beside each other, and Rung undid the bow and tin foil wrapping around the box. When he opened it, Whirl went very still.

"That—" Whirl’s vocalizer clicked as it reset. "That can’t be."

"It took a while to track one down, but it is exceptionally fine craftswork." Rung carefully pulled the chronometer from the packaging, holding it out to Whirl. "I thought it would be nice to have near the berth."

"Doesn’t match the theme," Whirl said, but Rung could tell it was a reflexive protest; Whirl’s optic never strayed from the chronometer, and his voice lacked any bite. "Where did you get that?"

"These pieces are rather highly sought in collectors’ circles," Rung said, turning the chronometer over and running his thumb over Whirl’s insignia on the back. "It was difficult to get anyone to part with one."

Whirl’s engine stuttered to a halt, and suddenly agony and delight and grief and pride and the purest joy all flooded the EM field that burst from his grip. “You didn’t have to go to all that trouble for me,” Whirl said, static caging in the words. 

He felt the sudden, undeniable urge to hold Whirl’s claw, which had begun trembling. Rung settled the chronometer on his lap to free up a hand. “It was no trouble at all.” He rubbed a small, gentle circle against Whirl’s claw. “Now, where should we place this?”


	4. Snuggle the Snuffler

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's just keeping Rung from freezing to death. Seriously.

Whirl curled around Rung on the berth, keeping him tucked safe and warm beneath his cockpit. They’d been recharging like this since Whirl’s first night rooming with him; in the meta-cycle since, Rung had taken to wrapping himself around Whirl’s claw in his sleep. When he snuffled—as he always did when solidly in recharge—he would rub his cheek against the smooth part of the claw.

Though Whirl had  _tried_  to point out that one nightmare could result in Rung getting sliced in half, the little mech seemed to stick to him as if he’d been magnetized as soon as consciousness slipped away from him. Rather than staying awake all night in terror of hurting the tiny doctor, Whirl had carefully blunted the claws on the end of the arm Rung liked to hug. Though he could still dent him during a bad recharge, at least he didn’t have to be scared of waking to find Rung bleeding out against him.

Whirl shuddered, and Rung stirred. He pressed a sleepy kiss to the claw—the claw that had literally ripped out at least fifty spark chambers—and snuggled closer. “Are you all right?”

“‘m fine,” he mumbled. Gently,  _gently_ , he ran the blunted clawtip along Rung’s chin. “Get back to sleep.”

Rung murmured an indistinct sound that must have indicated some kind of agreement, because he started snuffling against Whirl’s claw again. And Whirl’s spark squeezed, burning in his chest.

"What the Pit is wrong with me?" he muttered. The mob was still after him—wanted to make an example of him. He’d been too high profile to escape untouched. He was  _dangerous_. Rung had no business pulling him around by his claw in public, where he could end up being collateral damage in a revenge scheme. No business wrapping an arm around Whirl’s waist and tucking his little head beneath rotors that were sharp enough to decapitate him.

Rung was a good guy. He deserved—he deserved  _better_. Better than some empurata with a big ol’ target on his mutilated helm. 

Looking over at the chronometer against the wall—the last relic of a life he’d thought lost forever—he just couldn’t wrap his processor around the idea that Rung had  _chosen_  him.

"Shh, shh." Rung stroked his claw, apparently teeking his mood even deep in recharge. "S’okay. Love you."

"You nerd," Whirl muttered. His spark flooded with an embarrassing amount of affection, and he squeezed the little guy close up against him. When Rung started snuffling again, he offline his optic. "I love you, too."


	5. Bonding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wants to do right by Rung.

Whirl had said he wanted to do things ‘all official-like’ at a proper government office. Given that the Senate had taken his hands and face, Rung wasn’t sure whether this was a  _frag you_  to the mechs who’d tried to turn him into a weapon. Certainly, that would have been the first justification out of Whirl’s vocalizer—but Rung had teeked something a little more vulnerable in Whirl’s field when he proposed it.

So they’d made arrangements. A private ceremony—just them and an officiant. They stood across each other, and  _eagerness_  and  _nervousness_  warred in Whirl’s field as he took Rung’s hands in his claws.

"So I read all that scrap in the cojunx laws," Whirl said, "and it’s kinda ridiculous how they made it take so many words when it’s basically three things I would do anyway." He reset his vocalizer and went very still, as if bracing himself. "First off, as your bondmate, I gotta want you. And I want you every which way, Rung."  There was embarrassment and joy in his field, and his claws warmed in Rung’s hands. "I want your ridiculous snoring to get me to go to sleep. I want you to hold my claw like you aren’t the least bit scared of it. I want—well." His plating heated more. "I want _you_.”

"I want you, too, Whirl," Rung said, although it wasn’t yet his turn to offer vows. 

Whirl seemed to take spark from the reassurance; his frame relaxed a little. “Second of all, a bondmate protects. That part should be obvious, huh?” Whirl laughed nervously. “I’m gonna do my damnedest to keep you safe. You’re—well, after this, you’re gonna be my own spark, aren’t you? So I’d protect you with mine. If that makes sense.” He scuffed a pede against the floor and reset his vocalizer. “To be honest, it’d kill me to see you hurt. I’m gonna take good care of you, sweetspark. I promise.”

Rung squeezed the claw Whirl had blunted to protect him from himself and pulsed  _adoration_ and  _trust_  through his field. 

"Last of all, a bondmate provides." Whirl said, resetting his vocalizer again. "I don’t got much to offer you. Can’t get steady work. Only got a few credit stashes left around town." Whirl leaned forward to press his helm against Rung’s tenderly. "But I’m gonna do my best, okay? You need something, and I’ll find a way to get it. Okay? I’m gonna—I’m gonna give you everything you ever wanted. No matter how long it takes."

Rung’s spark pulsed in his chest, straining toward the spark hidden in the frame so very close his. “You’re everything I ever wanted,” he said, lifting a hand to touch the side of Whirl’s helm. “I desire you. I will do everything in my power to protect you. I will provide for you whatever I can.” Rung shuttered his optics and smiled. “More than that, I will love you every moment from now until I cease functioning.”

"I’m gonna kick it first," Whirl objected. "If I outlive you, I’m doin’ something wrong."

"Even if you do, I will still love you."

Disbelief and distress flashed across Whirl’s field. “Doc—”

"All these things I offer freely." Rung pulled closer to place a gentle kiss against Whirl’s chest. "You are so  _good_ , Whirl. I hope I can make you happy.”

"That’s all you’ve ever done, Doc." Whirl nuzzled the back of Rung’s head as Rung buried his head against his cockpit. "If you’ll have me, you’ve got me."

Whirl’s chestplating folded away beneath Rung’s cheek. More armor protected it than most mechs had, but when the glittering spark at his core was fully exposed, Rung’s spark burned against the interior of his chassis, straining to meet its mate.

With a gentle touch to his arm, Rung prompted Whirl to lift him so their chests were level, and he folded his own armor away.


	6. Show Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whirl wants to show off his junxy. Who could blame him?

"Yeah, I’m here with my junxy," Whirl drawled, waving a claw in Rung’s direction. They’d been keeping a low profile for vorns, but after their bonding ceremony? Pffft, no, they were hitting the town. Whirl was determined to show Rung off _everywhere_. He’d only let him out of arm’s reach so he could grab their next round of drinks.

"Your cojunx endura," the bartender repeated, arching an optic ridge as he caught Rung’s eye. "Yeah, right."

Annoyance flared in Whirl’s spark, but he pushed it aside. “Can I just get that bubbly orange drink already? It’s his favorite. And I want the fizzy purple one.”

"Sure, mech, whatever." The bartender started mixing energon and additives. "You can hardly call him your conjunx if you haven’t even bought him a drink yet. You’re jumping the gun a bit." He gave Whirl a pitying look. "Just don’t get your hopes up too high. Mechs like him don’t exactly go out with mechs like you."

Whirl swallowed the urge to show just what kind of mech he’d been pre-Rung. He glanced back at Rung to ground himself and instead found their corner unoccupied.

For a split second, the old terror surfaced—the mob had found him, had found Rung,  _they’d taken Rung_ —and then he spotted the little bot weaving through the crowd. 

"Hey, sweetspark," Whirl said, holding out his blunted claw to take Rung’s hand. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Service here is kinda lousy."

Rung arched a very respectable optic ridge at the bartender as he tucked himself beneath Whirl’s arm. “No rush. Just didn’t want to be apart too long.”

Whirl would’ve gaped if he’d still had a face. How did he always know? Then Rung pulsed reassurance along their sparkbond, and Whirl understood.

"Get down here," Rung said, crooking a finger up at Whirl. Whirl bent his helm down obligingly, flushing with warmth when Rung tweaked his pedipalps and pulled him in for a kiss to the side of his helm.

The bartender set the drinks down with a louder clunk than was strictly necessary, and Whirl looked up at him, optic curved with delight. He flicked a credit chip out of subspace and tossed it at the bartender’s head. While he scrambled to catch it, Whirl reached out to snag the glasses with his free claw. “Here, lemme get those for you, babe.”

"Mm, you’re so sweet." Whirl wasn’t sure, but he thought Rung shot the bartender an almost _dangerous_  look. “So glad you’re mine.”

Whirl strutted back to their table, Rung still under one arm. “All yours, babe.” And he wouldn’t have it any other way.


	7. Slow Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rung, apparently, had never danced in his life.

Whirl had hit hundreds of clubs during his mafia days; he knew a thing or two about how to shake it. He’d gotten good enough that he could even get wallflowers to dance with him when he wanted a partner.

Rung, apparently, had never danced in his life. 

It was probably the cutest fragging thing Whirl had ever seen, but he had that thought about every time he saw Rung. But watching the little nerd bobbing his head and carefully shaking his aft?  _Fragging precious_.

In an attempt to fight the urge to crush Rung in a hug, he said the first thing that came to mind. “Yeah, shake it!” 

This was, apparently, not something Rung had expected; he fell out of time with the music and looked up at Whirl with nervous optics. “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with this music.”

Across their bond, Whirl felt his anxiety. “What’s your favorite flavor, Doc?”

"I’m rather fond of—of slow songs," Rung confessed. He suggested a few titles, none of which Whirl recognized.

Patting him carefully-but-carelessly on the helm, Whirl turned to seek out the DJ. “Leave it all to me, babe.”

A few carefully worded not-threats later, Whirl danced his way back over to Rung, who was crowded against the wall without Whirl to clear the dance floor. (his gun-tits had that effect in clubs)

"Y’know, I’m gonna have to teach you how to take it fast sometime," Whirl said, dragging Rung back out into the crowd. He was here to show off his cojunx, dammit. 

Rung winked, and Whirl’s plating heated at once. “Perhaps when we get back to the apartment?”

"Smooth, Doc." Whirl pulled him flush against his side, nuzzling his helm. "I’m gonna take you up on that one."

Before Rung could flirt back, the lights and music slowed. His optics lit up with delight. “Why, Whirl, I do believe they’re playing our song!”

And suddenly—suddenly Rung was  _definitely_  in his element. Whirl hadn’t gone for the slow stuff before, but Rung moved like he’d been built for it. Suddenly Whirl was acutely aware of the polish Rung had gotten—and so was the rest of the club.

He looked spark-stoppingly good.

A smile playing at the corner of his lips, Rung seemed to notice Whirl had stopped to stare—and smoothly moved in to take him by the claw and lead.

It was better than flying. As long as he trusted Rung—and there was nobody he trusted more, including himself—every step led naturally into the next. Rung rested his head against Whirl’s chassis, and he could feel the spark reaching out to his through the metal.

He’d never felt— _intimate_ like this. When they merged sparks, they were one in spirit, but in this dance they were also one body. The space between them didn’t matter; they never separated entirely. Claw to servo, cheek to chest, hip to hip—they always maintained at least one point of contact.

As the song drew to a close, Rung reached up to cup the side of Whirl’s helm and pulled him down to kiss each of his pedipalps. Gently at first, and then mouthing them with those absurdly soft lips. It tingled—it  _burned_ —and Whirl’s fans kicked on as his engine started humming.

Rung pulled back to give him a grin that stripped him down to the spark, shaking him to the core. “Let’s take this dance lesson home, shall we?”


	8. Revenge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've got Rung.

"Frag." Whirl pressed a claw—the sharp claw—to his chest, fighting to keep his spark steady. Their sparkbond was new, but he could feel Rung’s spark even miles apart.

And right now, what he felt was  _pain_.

When he tried to feel for more details, all he got was  _cold_ —the sensation of a steel floor, the ache of a bruised jaw. [Rung?] he sent along the bond. [Babe, where are you? What’s going on?]

Instead of answering him, the bond snapped shut. No more pain—but no more Rung, either. Panic swelled in his chest.

"Frag." He stood stock still in the middle of their apartment, staring at the chronometer against the wall. "They found me. They found us."

He’d gotten complacent. A few vorns without any attempts on his life, and he’d figured that the mob had given up on getting him back. Making an example of him. He’d thought it was safe enough to take Rung out on the town and tell every fragging mech out there that he belonged spark and body to Rung.

The mobsters couldn’t hurt Whirl without massive casualties. He had guns in his tits, for crying out loud. Rung? Whirl’s spark clenched. The only hardwired tech Rung had was a thumb microphone.

The microphone. Whirl leapt for the nearest data pad, frantically keying in the transmission code for the mic. Speakers crackled into life. A sickening crunch filled the room, and Whirl nearly dropped the datapad.

"Aren’t you gonna say anything for the camera?" Whirl knew that voice—his handler. The boss’s righthand mech. "We do want him to know we’ve got the right mech. Not sure he’ll be able to tell by looking at you."

The screen cracked between his claws, and he dropped the pad onto the berth before he snapped it in half.

"I’m sure there are other ways to make you sing," the voice crooned. "But I’m saving those for later."

Rung’s cough sounded too wet—energon. He was losing energon.

"Come on, sweetspark. Sing for me."

Whirl’s entire body shook with rage, but he listened hard—tapping. Rung was tapping out a code in binary.  _"Don’t worry."_  Over and over again.  _"Be safe."_

He’d shut him out to keep him from rushing to the rescue? To keep him out of danger? Well, tough fragging luck. 

Cold metal floor. His old handler. A cell—a torture chamber. 

He still knew the old haunts, and he still had weapons caches hidden around the city. 

[I’m coming, babe. Hold tight.]

***

He hadn’t killed in vorns. Hadn’t used a gun in longer. He’d dealt with mob assassins with his claws, usually opting to let the live because Rung was a sweet, sensitive little guy.

Now Whirl wished he’d nailed their spark chambers to the walls of their own safe houses. _This is what will happen if you come after me and mine._  He should have struck first. He should have ripped them limb from limb and left warnings written in the viscera.

For all his lack of practice, piston-memory hadn’t left him. He tore through the halls of their main safehouse—the only one nice enough to have real steel floors. The bullets didn’t hurt like the absence of Rung in his spark. 

Twisted, broken bodies littered the halls. He didn’t count them—couldn’t. He just raced for the next interrogation chamber and annihilated anyone who got in his way.

He roared at the security cameras, incoherent with fury. “Kill him, and you’re  _dead_ ,” he shouted. “Dead!” A lot of them already  _were_  dead, of course, but he would find every single one of them, every member of their families, every friend, everyone. And they would  _die_. 

Rung had pulled him out of the murdering business. Without Rung’s sensibilities, he’d jump right back in and slaughter them until no one was left but him.

In the sixth torture chamber, he saw his handler and  _knew_  Rung was in the room—even if he couldn’t see him.

"Surprised you made it this—"

A sharp claw to the vocalizer, and he’d muted his old handler. Shock barely had time to get chased away by terror before Whirl ripped his helm clean off, neatly severing the brainstem.

"Rung!" Whirl’s vocalizer clicked with static. " _Rung!_ " Had he ever sounded so desperate in his life? He’d never felt so terrified. If Rung wasn’t answering—if the bond hadn’t been  _blocked_  but _severed_ —

The sound of an engine choking as it failed to turn over drew his attention to the corner.

"No, no, no," he pleaded, stumbling over with legs that no longer seemed responsive enough. "Rung, please."

The orange frame in the corner hung limp and loose-limbed when Whirl took him into his arms. Whirl cataloged his injuries as he scrambled to his pedes. They’d started ripping out his fingers—leaving only the thumb and pinky in a mockery of Whirl’s own claws. They’d gouged out an optic, too—and Whirl  _knew_  this was a message for him, but seeing it ripped into Rung’s face—

He didn’t have a free claw to pick up Rung’s shattered glasses. Without them, Rung’s remaining optic looked too soft and vulnerable.

Securing Rung beneath his cockpit, Whirl bolted for the exit. He fired on anything that so much as twitched, not daring to pause. As he burst free of the safehouse, he noticed that Rung’s legs swung at strange angles—they’d been snapped to keep him from running.

It wasn’t until Rung reached up to touch a bloody hand to his shoulder that Whirl noticed his vents were hitching.

"Shh, shh," Rung said, more static than sound. "Shh, shh."

Whirl choked. “I’m getting you to a medic, okay?” He hoped Rung could understand him through the staticky sobs. “I think there’s—there’s this guy named Ratchet. You’re gonna be okay.”

It took all his willpower to keep his arms steady. Trembling would just jostle Rung. He had to be hurting enough.

"Sorry." Rung’s voice crackled, the voxcoder clearly blown. 

” _Sorry_?” Whirl shrieked. “Frag, Doc. Why are—why would you even  _say_  something like that? This is all my fragging fault.” He twisted around, scanning the alleys for the one he wanted before taking off again. “Your optics. Your  _hands_.” He had to reset his vocalizer. “I’m never letting you out of my sight again as long as I live. I am  _so sorry_.”

The bond opened again, and Whirl nearly sobbed as reassurance washed across the link, trying to mask the pain.

"If I’d never—" his vents hitched again. "If I’d never—" How many things had he done wrong? He couldn’t begin to count. But his optic fastened on the graffiti symbol for  _medic_  and his spark left. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”

The medic was in. Whirl collapsed the moment he’d set Rung on the medibay berth, pulling himself as far out of the way as he could, folding in his limbs. He’d fragged things up enough—but he still couldn’t let his husband out of sight.

The medic got to work immediately. “How’d he get hurt?”

"Mob," Whirl answered, voice cracking again. "I walked out a few vorns ago." He nodded at Rung. "He set me on the straight and narrow."

"I see." The medic’s hands moved faster than sight. "So why go after him and not you?"

"Conjunx endura."

Ratchet arched an optical ridge and said nothing.

Breems turned into joors. Whirl couldn’t recharge, but he drifted in and out of lucidity curled up on the medibay floor.

"Whirl?"

The familiar voice had him on his feet in an instant. “Rung.” He reached to trace a feather-light line along Rung’s healing jaw with his blunt claw. “Rung, sweetspark, are you okay?”

Rung reached up to brush a newly rebuilt hand against the side of Whirl’s helm. The glass in his new optic didn’t quite match the old one. “Mm. You?”

"Me?" Whirl laughed, sounding delirious even to his own audials. "No, no, this isn’t my energon."

Ratchet turned to scan him and groaned. “Yeah, that’s what I thought when you came in, but you’re actually riddled with bullet holes. Great. You’ve been leaking on my floor all this time.”

Whirl glanced down at himself and couldn’t see past his cockpit. A quick self-diagnostic confirmed the diagnosis, though. “I’m fine. Is Rung okay?”

Ratchet rubbed his optics, looking weary. “Up on the berth, kid.”

"Not until Rung’s okay." He crossed his arms. "I’ve survived worse."

"Rung needs to rest a bit longer, but he’s gonna be fine." Ratchet picked up a wrench and used it to direct Whirl onto the berth beside his conjunx. "And if you two are sparkbonded,  _your_  pain’s gonna keep him awake, so don’t try to be a self-sacrificial aft and let me  _work_  already.”

Whirl complied, but he kept his optic trained on Rung. When Rung’s optics cycled off and he started snuffling in deep recharge, Whirl finally relaxed and let himself drift under, too.


End file.
